


A Meeting of Hearts

by Eriaeda



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eriaeda/pseuds/Eriaeda
Summary: Horatio is in Ingolstadt for the day, trying and failing not to worry about Hamlet. It is then that a sweet (but clearly exhausted) man named Henry Clerval stumbles into the cafe Horatio is dining in. On a whim, Horatio offers the man a sympathetic ear.
Relationships: Hamlet/Horatio (Hamlet), Henry Clerval/Victor Frankenstein
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Occurring before the Players arrive in Elsinore for Hamlet, and roughly halfway through Frankenstein—hopefully the timing is clear from Henry’s description. 
> 
> Is the historical setting accurate? Of course not! But we’re here for a fun time, not a historically proper time!
> 
> Comments appreciated!!

Horatio found that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t enjoy the buildings of Wittenberg when Hamlet wasn’t with him. He’d been there without Hamlet before, of course, but this time it had seemed… different. It almost felt like he would never see the Hamlet he knew from Wittenberg again, that his father’s death had destroyed the passionate, sympathetic boy who looked at Horatio like he held all the secrets to the universe. He couldn’t see the Hamlet that he knew now—the one with sunken eyes, a sharp grimace, and bitter melancholy—existing in the same libraries where the two of them had studied into the small hours of the night.

It wasn’t that he’d wanted to go to Wittenberg, either. A professor had called him back for some inane academic reason that Horatio couldn’t even recall, and the first train back to Elsinore wasn’t until tomorrow. Horatio wanted to jump out of his skin, terrified that when he returned, no version of Hamlet would be left. Even the sunken eyes were better than closed ones.

So, unable to sit still, he’d travelled to  Ingolstadt—lying to the professor about some colleague he’d wanted to meet—for a change of scenery. As Horatio sipped his tea on the veranda of a rather quaint café, he had the absurd thought that Elsinore Hamlet would likely approve of Horatio’s depressing ruminations.

These thoughts were interrupted, however, with the abrupt entrance of a young man, his coat fluttering behind him and his reddish-brown hair fluffing around his head. The hostess—a fearsome but accepting woman—gave the man a smile almost too kind for her wrinkled face, and quickly gave him a seat at the table next to Horatio’s. She scurried away without taking his order, leaving Horatio to assume that she already knew what it was.

Almost immediately after sitting down, the man buried his head in his arms, releasing a painful sigh. Looking closer, Horatio could see that the clothes he was wearing were rumpled, as though he hadn’t changed out of them in several days. His hands were also trembling very slightly.

Perhaps Horatio was feeling profoundly useless that he couldn’t help Hamlet, or maybe he was just curious about the man’s troubles. But for whatever reason, he stood from his table and approached the man—though his head was still buried.

“Excuse me, sir?” Horatio asked in his best German, leaning towards him. “Are you all right?”

The man jolted rather extremely in response to Horatio’s question, head snapping up and eyes widening as if searching for a threat. Horatio couldn’t help his involuntary jump backward.

“Yes? What?” The man’s German was, incredibly, worse than Horatio’s, and it took him a couple seconds to focus on Horatio’s timid presence, one of his hands raised in the air out of surprise.

“Pardon me, sir.” Horatio put the hand behind his back, trying to give a polite expression. “I was only asking if you were all right.”

“You were—? Oh. Ah, I see.” The man’s smile was profoundly tired, and his shaking hand did little to smooth his hair. “I am sorry, good sir. I have been… out of sorts, but… I am fine. Yes, I am fine.”

Horatio really should have let it go. He didn’t know this man, or this city. And, evidently, he wasn’t very good at helping those who were “out of sorts.”

But again, for some reason, Horatio smiled slightly at the man, and carefully sat in the chair across from him. “What is your name?”

He seemed surprised that Horatio didn’t return to his table—or possibly just surprised that Horatio cared enough to ask for his title. He shoved his hair again and said, “Clerval. Henry Clerval. But I prefer Henry.”

Horatio presented his hand. “Henry, then. I’m Horatio.”

Henry’s hand was slightly cold, but at least the shaking seemed to have stopped. He nodded and said, “Nice to meet you, Horatio.”

“You’re not from here, are you?” Horatio reached back to his table to retrieve his tea, and when he turned around again, Henry was slightly red.

“Is it that obvious?” 

“Well, it is only obvious to me because I am also not from here,” Horatio replied kindly. “I’m Danish, originally.”

Henry brightened at this fact, and his voice was excited when he replied, “You’re from Denmark? Oh, wonderful! I’ve always wanted to visit there, I’ve read so much about it. I’m Swiss, myself. Geneva. I mostly speak French.”

Horatio chuckled. “Oh, dear. My French is… profoundly rusty. Perhaps we should stick to German.”

Henry smiled for the first time, and though it was small, it was incredibly kind. “If you can understand me, friend, then German is fine. Frankly, a proper Swiss should know German fluently, I just… couldn’t get the hang of it.”

Horatio was almost mesmerized by the sweetness in Henry’s words and expression, as if he were the embodiment of sunshine on a Spring morning. For the first time in months, Horatio’s grin came easily, and his shoulders lowered slightly from his ears.

“No worries, Henry.” Horatio hesitated for a moment before continuing. “However, I feel I must question you on something you said earlier. That you were ‘out of sorts,’ but still ‘fine.’ Now, I could be projecting my own worries onto you, but I find that hard to believe.”

Henry’s brightness dimmed, and he looked down to his sleeves. “Well… you are right, sir. I am not truly… fine.” He met Horatio’s gaze again. “But, quite honestly, Horatio, I just met you. It seems inappropriate—and unfair—to lay all of my troubles on you.”

“I cannot argue with that.” Horatio leaned back in his chair, steeling himself. “I am a stranger. But if I know anything about keeping your troubles to yourself, I know that they often pile up and rot when shoved down. Besides, you will likely never see me again. I will not hold anything you say in judgement against you, or tell anyone about it that would connect the stories back to you. I am simply here to listen, if you would like to speak.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly and his head cocked to one side—his long hair falling with it. Horatio hoped his outward demeanor was still calm and stoic, that perhaps Henry didn’t see the desperation in Horatio’s expression. The hope that if he could at least help one person who clearly needed a friend, then maybe he could help Hamlet, as well.

But then, miraculously, Henry gave a resigned sigh, laying his arms on the table. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. And my mother always said that a burden shared was a burden lessened.”

Horatio prayed the relief in his eyes wasn’t too palpable, and nodded. “A sensible woman.”

The hostess came with a drink for Henry, then, and she gave Horatio a decidedly baleful glare before muttering something to Henry in quick French. Henry smiled, however, and responded in slower, seemingly kinder French. The woman gave Horatio a look that clearly was intended as an insult before walking away.

“She does not like me,” Horatio stated while Henry took a sip of what Horatio could see was espresso.

Henry’s laugh was as bright as his smile. “Don’t be too offended. Madame Bisset doesn’t like anyone.”

“She does give that impression.”

Henry’s grin lasted a few more moments before disappearing into a frown, and he took a deep breath while setting down his cup. 

Horatio knew he was preparing for the conversation, and leaned forward in an attentive manner. 

“Well… Goodness, Horatio, I don’t even know where to start.”

“The beginning is usually wise. When did the trouble begin?”

Henry seemed to wither at this question, and his head dropped to his chest. “Even that question is not easy. Strictly speaking, two months ago. Less strictly, three years ago. Honestly speaking…” Henry paused. “When I was a boy.”

Horatio’s heart twinged painfully in sympathetic feeling. He knew what it was like not to know where it all went wrong.

“Let’s start with three years ago, and work forward from there?” Horatio suggested gently.

Henry took another breath and nodded, gaze hardening. “Three years ago Victor came to Ingolstadt for university. Before then, we had been childhood friends in Geneva. I can scarcely remember an evening or afternoon that I didn’t spend with Victor at either his home or mine—except the times when he travelled with his parents, and I would practically wait on his porch for him to return.”

Henry’s wistful gaze was painfully familiar.

“You were very close,” Horatio summarized, trying not to get too lost in his own emotions. “But this changed when he came here?” 

One of Henry’s hands tightened into a fist, the wistfulness dissipating. “Yes. He… he dropped off the world, it seemed. For three years, we heard nothing from him. No letters, no postcards. We couldn’t even locate a friend he had made at Ingolstadt who could tell us what he was up to. Elizabeth and I—Elizabeth is Victor’s sister—began to wonder if he had been killed. If he’d been dead for the better part of the three years, and no one in Ingolstadt knew Victor enough to identify the body. I couldn’t stop imagining him lying on a metal table in some dark basement, alone, and his skin growing cold.

“Elizabeth and I each had our own reasons for letting our paranoia become so fevered, and we knew our thoughts were not rational ones, but eventually I decided to come out here anyway—just to be sure. I did also come to see if I could attend the university here—I’d like to be a scholar—but it was mostly to find Victor.”

Horatio was starting to understand what had drawn him to this stranger in the first place.

“Did you find him?” Horatio asked, making another attempt to hold tightly onto his own composure.

Henry nearly turned white. “I… I did, but he wasn’t… he wasn’t right.”

Horatio took another sip of tea, waiting patiently.

Henry’s inhale shook. “I mean, at first he was. Sort of. I actually ran into him as I was stepping out of my coach. It was well after midnight, I didn’t expect anyone to be about—least of all him. And, in the moment, my joy of seeing Victor alive and on his feet was so overwhelming I forgot all of my fear and anger—and Victor seemed to respond in kind, as happy to see me as I was to see him. He greeted me and we started to walk towards his college, and I… well, I started to babble, because that’s what I do when I’m surprised or nervous. He again expressed how excited he was to see me, and asked about Elizabeth and his father. I began to lightly chastise him for writing to us so little, when I noticed how… off, he looked.”

Horatio swallowed heavily. “Off how?” He asked, words not nearly as steady as he would have hoped.

Henry’s discomfort increased. “In nearly every way. He wore nothing but a shirt and thin pants, and was barefoot. His hair was long and unwashed—I thought I could see streaks of gray running through it, though he is as young as I. His skin was sallow and gaunt, and his eyes…” Henry paused again. “His eyes were… haunted. As if… as if they had seen things no man should ever see.”

Horatio’s tea cup clattered when he tried to set it down, as now  _ his _ hands were shaking. He thought of Hamlet, screaming on the castle walls to swear on his sword, his eyes horribly bright, his collarbones much too pronounced.

“What did you do?” Horatio managed the question though his teeth wanted to chatter.

If Henry noticed Horatio’s increasing nervousness, he didn’t comment on it and continued. “I… I asked him what was wrong, why he looked so ill, but he only said that he had lately been ‘deeply engaged in one occupation,’ and wouldn’t elaborate further. We continued walking to his apartment, but Victor was trembling like a leaf in the wind, hands twitching and grabbing at each other. When we actually reached his building, he took my shoulders tightly in his hands, demanding that I wait downstairs while he ‘checked the room.’”

Horatio waited again, thinking it was better not to interrupt.

“I wanted to go after him. I wasn’t sure he could even make it up the stairs, he seemed so emaciated. But… it felt like it’d be betraying his trust, and I had never, ever done that to him. I couldn’t start now. So, I waited for roughly ten minutes until he came back down, and this time his joy was decidedly manic, a feverish gleam replacing his previously dull gaze. He grabbed my hands and pulled me through the stairway, spreading his arms wide in his apartment and exclaiming, ‘Empty! It is empty!’”

Both of Henry’s hands curled into fists and his voice was thick with emotion. “Empty of  _ what? _ He would not tell me, just danced around and proclaimed again how thrilled he was to see me. His servant brought breakfast—because by this point it was morning—but that did nothing to calm him down. He was laughing, clapping his hands, jumping over furniture…” Henry shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. “He was positively  _ mad _ . And I… I had never been more terrified.”

_ I perchance hereafter shall think meet to put an antic disposition on _ . Horatio remembered how Hamlet seemed to curse into his hands, pulling at his shirt collar and then his hair.  _ So grace and mercy at your most need help you, swear. _

_ Do not go, my lord! _

“Did he… calm down?” Horatio’s voice was nearly a whisper.

Henry gave a harsh sigh, running a hand over his face. “That’s one way to view what happened next. I finally asked him straight out what was wrong, and approached him to… to shake him into sense, I suppose. But then Victor’s awful joy turned into absolute terror, his eyes filled with fear and he yelled, ‘Don’t ask me!  _ He _ can tell! Oh, save me, save me!’ He fell to the floor and began to spasm, and while I screamed for his servant and tried to hold down his body, he went limp in my arms.”

Horatio’s eyes were wide. “Did he… Was he…” Horatio couldn’t finish the question.

Henry seemed to notice Horatio’s train of thought and shook his head quickly. “Oh, no, he is not dead. He breathes. At least… he did the last time I checked.” Henry suddenly looked profoundly tired.

Horatio put the pieces together. “Ah, I understand. He fell ill. And you’ve been caring for your delirious, damaged Victor ever since.”

Henry nodded sullenly. “Today, at this cafe, with you, is the first time I’ve done anything that wasn’t for Victor’s sake since he collapsed that morning. The servant promised he could take care of my duties for a few hours, and practically begged me to go out. The last couple days specifically have been… rough.” One of Henry’s hands reached up to massage his temple.

Horatio was nearly bursting with sympathy for this man. “Henry, my friend,” Horatio whispered, putting his hand briefly over Henry’s on the table. “I am so sorry that you have to go through this. It must be horribly difficult.”

Henry’s chuckle was bitter. “I do not have a choice. He has no one else here, and if I do not care for him, he will never recover. I do not know what horrible thing happened to him, or what he feared was in that apartment—what ‘he’ Victor wanted me to save him from—but it… broke something, in him. And it is  _ killing _ me that I cannot fix it, and that I’m afraid I never will.”

Horatio was silent for a moment, rather shocked at how similar their two predicaments were.

“Can you ask for help from someone?” Horatio questioned softly. “A nurse? Doctor? Possibly his sister?”

“No. No, I will not.” Henry’s words were firm, gaze hard. “I will not let anyone see him like this, and especially not his family. They cannot know the extent of his illness. I write to Elizabeth often and tell her lies about his recovery, so she doesn’t worry too much. Victor was always so… proud. I won’t take that away from him, especially now.”

Horatio looked down, awed by Henry’s resolve. “You are a noble and true friend, Henry.”

Henry didn’t seem to hear Horatio’s words. “I would do  _ anything _ for him, but nothing seems to work!” He dug his fingers into his eyes. “You have no idea, Horatio. No concept of what it is like to watch your friend deteriorate in front of you, rambling about things you don’t understand but seem to cause him immense pain, wanting to help and care and love him but he can’t  _ hear _ you—”

Henry cut himself off, biting his lip and looking away. “I… I have spoken too much. I am sorry.”

“No, Henry,” Horatio said gently, leaning forward. “You have not. I told you I was here to listen, and I meant it. There is no reason to apologize. And… if we are being honest with each other… I believe I do understand how you feel.” 

Henry’s gaze snapped back to his, confused. “You do?” 

Horatio took a deep breath. 

“I, too, have a friend who is crumbling before my eyes, obsessing over problems I cannot comprehend and cannot help him process, no matter how hard I try. And I cannot shake the feeling that… that if I do not  _ resolve _ what is wrong… he will die. Possibly by his own hand, as he has promised to do so before.”

It was the first time he’d told anyone about how scared he was for Hamlet, how inevitable his suicide felt. Horatio supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that he was so terrified to speak it aloud—as if that made it real. 

He tried to ignore those fears, right now. Henry deserved a kindred spirit, and it seemed like Horatio could be it.

“So, yes, I understand the desperation. The need to save someone, and yet nothing seems to work. And I would give anything to free you of it, as I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.”

Henry’s expression changed from frustration to concern. He turned his body towards Horatio’s again. “Die by his own hand? Are you sure?”

Horatio gave the smallest of nods, one of his hands gripping the skin of his forearm under the table. “He… he once said that—to him—the value of his life was less than… than the value of a pin.”

“My God,” Henry whispered, eyes widening. “Horatio… I am so sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” Horatio tried for a pleasant expression that he was certain looked pained. “If it is anyone’s, it is mine.”

“ _ No _ ,” Now Henry was the one to grab Horatio’s hand, clasping it in his, eyes fervent. “It is  _ not _ your fault. Just as what happened to Victor is not mine. Though, sometimes…” Henry looked down, losing some of his confidence. “It does feel as though it is.”

Horatio laughed pitifully. “What fine messes we have gotten ourselves into.”

“It certainly seems that way.” Henry gave him a small smile. “Your friend, if I may ask… What is your history with him?”

Now Horatio was the one to let out a deep sigh, retracting his hand from Henry’s so as to rub his inner wrist. “We met in college. Wittenberg. He was… baffling, to be honest. He had the strangest interpretations of philosophy and literature, the most bizarre ways of looking at the world. But, if you sat listening to him long enough, you’d start to see through his eyes. To almost view the universe the way he did: as a place of unknowable mystery and beauty.”

Horatio looked down and laughed lightly. “It was so wonderfully different from what I had known all my life. I understood the world as full of singular interpretations, only one right answer to every question, no enigma too obscure that it couldn’t be solved. He showed me that, sometimes, the point of enigmas is to muse on what made them enigmas at all. That the investigation, even the question itself, was more important than any answer you could find. He used to say, ‘Why limit yourself to one answer, when that large brain of yours could hold thousands?’ He liked saying it because it would always make me laugh.”

It hurt, remembering Hamlet the way he was before his father died. What he wouldn’t give to see his prince flop onto the large chair in his apartment, limbs splayed in every which direction, and declare that he wasn’t going to leave until Horatio put his book down and braided Hamlet’s hair—it was nearly past his shoulders, back then. Horatio would say that he should just learn how to do it himself, and he’d pout and say,  _ It only feels right when you do it. _

Henry’s smile was coy, and if Horatio could have fooled himself before that he wasn’t blushing, he certainly was now. 

“He sounds like a fascinating man.”

“He was. Or… he is, but… I mean, now he’s…” Horatio gave up trying to explain and screwed his eyes shut, holding back the tears that threatened to spill over. “He was.”

“Horatio.” Henry’s voice was so kind Horatio could have broken down right then. “He might still return to the man he used to be. Neither of us can know the future.”

“I hope you are right.” Horatio managed to open his eyes again. “But my heart, my soul—the very part of myself Hamlet taught me to listen to—is telling me that he is already lost.”

Henry’s eyes widened, and Horatio realized he had revealed something he had been trying to avoid discussing. He could have cursed.

“Hamlet? As in Prince Hamlet, heir to the throne of Denmark?”

“You must not tell anyone this,” Horatio pleaded, leaning forward with his hands on the table. “Please.”

Henry nodded. “Of course, Horatio. I will not.”

His words—and frankly his entire character—were so sincere that Horatio actually believed him.

“I am sorry for my surprise, I simply didn’t know that you were a part of the royal court.”

Horatio shook his head quickly. “Oh, no, I am certainly not. What I told you was true: I know Hamlet from Wittenberg. My only connection to Elsinore is through him… the real members of the court have simply gotten used to my presence, because Hamlet has insisted upon it.”

“It almost seems like something out of a romance novel,” Henry said softly, smiling a little. “Next you’re going to tell me that he hid his princehood from you in college.” 

Horatio laughed lightly. “He did.” 

Henry’s shock was almost humorous. “You’re kidding!”

“It’s true. I only found out several months after spending time with him, and it was through a mutual acquaintance. I was quite angry about it, actually. I confronted him, and he said he much preferred having friends who treated him like another person, not a prince. I started calling him ‘my lord’ for a while, which he absolutely hated. But I didn’t behave any differently around him after I knew, and maybe that’s why he kept me around.”

“Or, maybe he kept you around because you are a kind, thoughtful, engaging person, and anyone would covet you as a companion.”

Horatio made a pitiful noise of surprise and gratitude, looking down as his ears burned.

“It’s true,” Henry echoed Horatio’s words with a bright smile.

Horatio cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Hm… Well, um… Thank you, Henry. You are… all of those things… as well.” 

“Are you always this terrible at receiving compliments?”

“I… Well… Goodness, there is no adequate response to that question, is there?” 

Henry laughed, bright and loud. “I suppose there isn’t. Forgive me for asking.”

“You are forgiven.” Horatio almost couldn’t help but smile when Henry laughed like that.

“But, prince or not, Horatio,” Henry began, sobering up. “He may still recover. I do not know what has happened, what has changed. But I have to believe that your Hamlet—and my Victor—can return from whatever darknesses they currently find themselves in.”

Horatio gripped his hands tightly in his lap. “Again, Henry. I hope you are right.”

They were silent together for a few moments. Henry looked out at the city, while Horatio looked towards the hills in the distance. He assumed Henry was actually searching the horizon for Victor, as Horatio was picturing his prince back in Elsinore.

“Henry…” Horatio’s voice was even quieter than a whisper. “Do you… love him? Victor? I mean, do you  _ really _ … love him?”

“Yes,” Henry whispered back without hesitation, still gazing at Ingolstadt. “I know what you ask. And yes, I do. I believe I always have.” 

He looked at Horatio. “And you, my friend? Do you love him?”

Horatio couldn’t bring himself to meet Henry’s gaze, though his expression was still honest and kind. But, apparently, he could bring himself to actually speak the truth.

“Yes. I love Hamlet with all that I am.” It was no less terrifying to say aloud than to think in his mind, but it felt less impossible when Henry sat across from him, feeling the same way.

“I am glad you were here today, Horatio. It is good to know that I am not as… alone… as I once thought I was.”

Horatio looked up at Henry’s smile, shaded by the setting sun. He tried to return it. 

“I’m glad I was here, too.”

He talked with Henry for many hours after that—about books, about school, about philosophy. Horatio was certain that Henry would make a brilliant scholar one day. It was, without a doubt, the most pleasant evening Horatio had spent in quite some time.

When the cafe was nearing its closing hour, Henry stood and said, “I… really must return to Victor.”

“Of course.” Horatio rose as well. “I understand.”

“I… do not know how to properly thank you, Horatio. For… tonight.”

“Then I will give you a task: write to me,” Horatio answered with a soft smile, pleased when Henry returned it. “I will likely be in Elsinore for the foreseeable future; write there. About whatever you wish. I’m—”

“Willing to listen?” Henry finished for him, extending his hand.

Horatio clasped it tightly in his, a brightness filling his chest. “Yes. Willing to listen.”

“Good luck, Horatio.”

He nodded. “To you as well, my friend.”

He watched Henry walk off into the city before turning towards his inn, still feeling the warmth of Henry’s laughter in his breast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finally completes the task Horatio asked of him, and Horatio finds in Henry's words a unique opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurring after all the events of Hamlet, and after the creature has given Victor the bride ultimatum in Frankenstein.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments!! I’m so glad you’re enjoying this story! I actually had this chapter written up when I posted the first chapter, but the third and final chapter is another story… and it’s probably going to be the longest. So bear with me, please: I will get it posted as soon as I can!

“A letter has come for you, sir.”

Horatio put his pen down and sighed, turning sullenly to the messenger that had been seemingly assigned to him throughout these hellish weeks. At the last moment he summoned a tired smile.

“Thank you…” Horatio trailed off as he scrambled to remember the man’s name. “Nathaniel. Who is it from?”

Fortinbras had been sending Horatio all of the mail he didn’t quite understand what to do with—which turned out to be a lot of it. He expected Nathaniel to say some name of another random government leader from another country, enquiring after the condition of Denmark. Given that Horatio and Voltimand were the only members of the royal court left alive, he had remained in Elsinore to assist with the takeover. 

In all honesty, Fortinbras was a good man. Strong, brave, confident—all of the things the history books said a leader should be. Voltimand insisted that he would lead Denmark well. The man actually told Horatio that this would be  _ better _ for the Danes than the… alternatives, as he would say. Voltimand hadn’t uttered the names “Hamlet,” “Gertrude,” or “Claudius” since that awful day.

Horatio’s stomach soured even remembering Voltimand’s words, though in his logic-driven mind he knew they held some truth.

His heart, on the other hand, believed some very different truths.

“Henry Clerval, of Geneva. He apparently has no other title.”

Horatio’s heart nearly stopped, his eyes widening as he quickly stood from his chair and marched to Nathaniel. He took the letter from his hands a bit too aggressively and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes…” Nathaniel looked perturbed, but Horatio wasn’t sure if it was at his sudden energy or his uncustomarily rude behavior. “Henry of Geneva.”

Horatio turned back to his desk, holding the envelope like the sacred texts from Wittenberg’s library that he was only allowed to hold once a semester. “Thank you, Nathaniel, that will be all.”

The servant left with the shortest of bows, and if he closed the office door with a little more force than usual Horatio didn’t notice. He was too busy carefully undoing the seal, marveling at the soft penmanship of his friend from Ingolstadt—it seemed to be just as warm and friendly as Henry’s voice had been.

Horatio opened the letter and began:

_ My dear Horatio, _

_ Forgive my lateness in fulfilling your request. There were some rather urgent family matters that required my full attention—well, not my family. Victor’s. But I consider them to be my family, as surely you know. _

_ But this letter is not for me—I write for you. When I finally took the time to think of someone other than myself, I learned about what happened in Denmark. About who perished, and who lived. _

_ I am sure you do not want me to summarize what you were there to see, from my third or fourth person’s perspective. But I want you to know that I feel for you most strongly, Horatio. I cannot imagine the pain of that experience… the sorrow you must feel. I only hope that I can provide some comfort in saying this: that I feel your pain as well, that I wish this had never occurred, that I would give anything to be in Denmark to comfort the man who did so much to comfort me. _

_ I cannot help but feel I led you astray. Perhaps there is no hope for either of us… Oh, but I so wanted to believe that wasn’t so. I want to believe that now more than ever—for me, and for you: my friend. I need to believe that some darknesses can be fought through. _

_ I will say it straight out: I am so sorry, Horatio.  _

_ I do not know if this letter will bring you any solace, and it may be vanity to hope that it will. But I have to hope. For if we do not do at least that, what is there? _

_ Hold on to your hope, Horatio. Please. Let us hold on together. _

_ I will be in Scotland soon, on a trip with Victor—I have attached the details of where we will be staying to this letter. I do not know your plans for the future, but if you can come there, I’d love to repay you for that night in the cafe. You may send a return letter to the address on the envelope, but I will wait for you in Scotland regardless. I do not want to place any undue pressure upon you, as surely there must already be so much. _

_ I wish you peace, Horatio. Truly, I wish you all that is good—but I know how hard those good things can be to accept in times of loss. So, I wish you that which I think would be most helpful: peace. _

_ With hope, I will see you soon. _

_ Your friend, _

_ Henry Clerval _

Horatio read the letter many times over, hearing the cadence of each sentence in Henry’s calming voice. While the brightness of Henry’s physical presence was surely more brilliant, the taste of it through this letter was more warmth than Horatio had felt since Hamlet went still in his arms. It was so, wonderfully, magnificently different. He felt a tear roll down his cheek, and brushed it away though he was smiling. 

He got out his own letter paper before this sudden and no doubt tenuous burst of energy dissipated, determined to give his friend a response.

He started to write:

_ My dear Henry, _

_ Words cannot describe my joy at receiving your letter. Here in Elsinore, I am known as the low-maintenance scholar. A man who is educated, helpful, and perpetually polite. Thus, even in these times, I am forced to present an air of ease. I do not believe anyone has so much as asked me how I was faring outside of the general, “Good morning, Horatio. Sleep well?” Though, to be fair, most of those who would have asked me such a question are dead. _

_ So, to have someone finally provide me with sympathy—some semblance of understanding—is more valuable than you can realize. Thank you, my friend. _

_ Oh, my. It seems I gushed a bit dramatically there. Forgive me. I am writing this immediately after reading your letter, so my writing is a bit more emotional than it would normally be. I wanted to send the reply out as soon as possible, in the hopes that you will receive it. _

_ Yes, I will meet you in Scotland. I will await the day of our reunion with great anticipation. _

Horatio paused, holding his pen up, wondering just how much he should tell Henry about what had happened that night. He ached to write everything down, every emotion and fear and regret—just to have someone listen. Or, maybe, just to have it out of his head.

But Henry didn’t deserve that. He didn’t need Horatio babbling to him about his own dark thoughts, when clearly the situation with Victor hadn’t been much improved.

However, he thought of Henry’s soft smile, and the way Horatio had felt free enough to admit his feelings for Hamlet to him—his true feelings. If someone like Henry wouldn’t listen to Horatio’s ramblings, who would?

He continued to write, though he tried to keep it brief:

_ There is something that is not written or spoken about with regard to that day. The day when nearly all of Elsinore perished, leaving me and a few servants as witnesses. I have struggled with it for all these weeks, and perhaps writing it down to you, my kind friend, will help. _

_ Hamlet was dying. He had been stabbed with a poisoned sword, and there was no cure for it. He lasted long against the effects, but I was the one to catch him when he finally collapsed. His mouth leaked blood, his breaths were shallow, his skin damp and pale… It was terrifying. _

_ So, I grabbed the cup of poisoned wine where it still sat on a nearby table: the wine that had killed Queen Gertrude. I didn’t even think. With one hand on Hamlet’s breast and the other placing the cup at my mouth, I said, “I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left.” _

_ I would have drank it. I would have killed myself right then, so I wouldn’t have to live without him. _

_ But Hamlet stopped me. _

_ Though his strength was failing, his grip on my wrist was strong, his eyes bright with fever but as stubborn as they’d ever been. _

_ He said, “As thou’rt a man, give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I’ll have it!” _

_ He succeeded in making me drop the goblet, the poisoned wine spilling out onto the marble floor. _

_ I looked at him, eyes wide. I again noticed his heavy, labored breathing, the blood dripping down his chin—but I also saw a different kind of desperation in his expression. A fear not for him, but for me. _

_ He spoke again, before I could think of something to say. “If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while, and in this harsh world… draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.” _

_ With his dying breaths Hamlet asked me to live. To speak of him and what happened in Denmark. In the moment I had no response except to hold him tighter, blinking the tears out of my eyes and trying so desperately not to yell. _

_ He died. Fortinbras came. Denmark is slowly moving on. _

_ But I can’t stop thinking about what Hamlet told me. What he did. I told you that I feared he would take his own life, and in the end, he didn’t. In fact, he seemed so terrified at the prospect of my doing the same that he used what little strength he had to stop me. And I keep thinking… why? Why did he stop me? What use could I possibly have, to anyone, anymore? _

_ So, Henry. I have been trying to answer that question, here in my office in Elsinore. Why Hamlet wanted me to live. And I think it is time that I truly seek an answer… away from the ghosts of Denmark. _

_ Hamlet wanted me  here . Wanted me… to provide something, something that only I can g ive. It’s time for me to find out what that is. For him. Maybe it will bring him peace, wherever he rests.  _

_ And, perhaps, I can find peace as well. _

_ Until Scotland, Henry. _

_ Your grateful friend, _

_ Horatio _

The letter went out the next morning, and Horatio made his preparations to leave Elsinore. When a distressed Voltimand asked him where he was going, and if he was coming back, Horatio simply smiled, and shook his head.


End file.
